Beloved Highlander

Now she did look at him, and saw such tenderness and understanding in his eyes that her own filled with tears.

He went on in that same enticing voice, and Meg felt her fear begin to ease. “I willna hurt you beyond a wee bit, morvoren. That I swear. I will be slow, so slow, and when it is time for us to join, you will want me to. You will beg me to, my Meg.”

She watched him approach her, not relaxing as he rested one knee upon the mattress right beside her. With an eye on that part of him that appeared to have grown even bigger—[ ]or maybe she was just closer to it—Meg shrank back as he leaned over her. But he ignored her fear, and began to remove the gown from her, tugging it carefully over the soft curve of her bel

ly, down to her thighs. He murmured something in Gaelic, as his eyes swept over the curls of auburn hair at the juncture of her thighs, and then he slipped the gown all the way off.

She wore her good silk stockings, that came to above her knees. With great care, he rolled them down, and as he did, he kissed her skin, from her knees right down to the curved arch of each foot.

Meg watched him, caught between wonder and suspicion, wriggling a little as his hair tickled her skin. She reached out her hand, smoothing it over the muscle of his shoulder, feeling it bunch as he moved. He didn’t stop her. Growing bolder, she ran her fingertips down his arm, testing the firm flesh there, seeing whether she could close her hand about his muscular upper arm. She could not. He was strong and hard, and just as fascinating as she had always thought him.

He was kissing her belly, now; hot open-mouthed kisses that made her squirm. His tongue trailed lazily through her damp curls, down to the cleft that seemed to open of its own accord at his touch. She should stop him, Meg supposed distractedly, for now he was tracing the fleshy folds between her thighs, as if he had all the time in the world.

“Gregor,” she said, “I feel silly like this.”

“Do you?” he asked, and began to suck at her, pulling and nibbling, and after that Meg couldn’t say any more. She couldn’t do anything much at all, because she had gone still.

Very still.

She felt as if something was pending, a great wave of pleasure building, driving at her. Meg gasped and shuddered as his wicked tongue found a particularly pleasurable spot, but before he could do any good, he had moved on again, lazily kissing her inner thighs, reaching up with his hand to tweak at her aching breasts.

Playing with her.

The great wave of pleasure smoothed out, almost went away. Was this all there was to it? Meg asked herself in frustration. And then Gregor found the spot again, sucking hotly now with his mouth, and suddenly she was bucking beneath him, keening and pleading. Meg heard her own voice, and even as she wondered at herself, she knew she could not help it. He had stripped her caution and control from her as easily as her green silk gown.

“Do ye want me, Meg? Will I take ye now?” His voice was harsh, a command rather than a question.

She opened her eyes—she had not realized she had closed them—and found him above her. His body was resting over hers, not quite touching, for he held himself away, but near enough to feel the waves of heat pouring off him. Meg shivered, and her gaze slid over his broad chest with its covering of dark hair, down to his hard belly and narrow hips. To the part of him that seemed to have a life of its own. As she looked, he pressed a knee between her thighs, opening them, and lowered himself between them, where she still throbbed from his mouth.

It felt a little strange, but pleasant enough. Still, she could not expect him to lie like this all night. He would want to do other things.

“I am still uncertain,” she told him.

“Och, Meg, you’re never uncertain about anything,” he retorted, kissing her cheek, tiny, hot kisses that ran down her jaw to her throat. Between her thighs, she felt his erection jutting against her soft, swollen flesh, rubbing against her very like his hand and tongue had done, only different.

She found herself concentrating on that friction, losing herself, even moving against him a little, enjoying the sensation. Until he groaned and took a ragged breath, his shoulders shaking slightly with laughter. “Oh God, Meg, ye’ll be the death of me,” he said. He lifted his head and looked down at her, his amber eyes aglitter with passion and heat, and something very like pleading.

“I’m only a man,” he reminded her. “Let me take ye, Meg. I am burning up.”

She eyed him uneasily, but then he moved against her, the head of his rod finding her moist cleft and sliding a little way in. The sensation was not…unpleasant, oh, not at all. And when he groaned again, moving on her, his big body sliding against hers so that all his hairy bits abraded her soft skin, it was rather nice.

“Just be careful,” she told him breathlessly.

He laughed as if he, too, was finding it difficult to catch his breath. His mouth came down on hers, tasting of her, and his kiss was as thorough and insistent as he was in all the things he did. His rod slid deeper, finding resistance, and out again. Her hips urged him forward, her mouth clung to his. She was so hot and damp and ready, it was easy when he gave one hard thrust and broke through the thin veil that kept her virginity intact.

Meg arched and gasped, feeling the tearing like a burn, a stinging inside her. And then he was kissing her face, gentle kisses, apologetic kisses, hushing her with Gaelic words that she didn’t understand and yet which soothed her to stillness again. His fingers were busy caressing her, and he sucked at her nipples, causing her breasts to ache all over again. But all the while, between her legs, he was still. Waiting. Patient. When at last he lifted his head again to look into her eyes, he must have seen that she was afire with need, for he smiled, slowly and with a certain male smugness.

“Ye want me now, Meg Mackintosh.” It wasn’t a question.

Still watching her, still reading her eyes, he thrust his hips and slid deep inside her. It didn’t hurt now, only that he was so big and she felt stretched, but even that wasn’t unpleasant. Straightaway he withdrew, only to sink into her again, filling her, stretching her, causing little tingles and quivers throughout every inch of her body. She slid her arms about him, holding him close, her hips lifting against him so that he slid deeper inside her still. That felt nice. That made him groan. He reached down to cup her hips in his big hands, adjusting her, tilting her, so that when next he thrust into her he was brushing against that spot. That special, achy spot.

Now it was Meg who groaned. She felt the wave catch her, suddenly, unawares. It rolled her, out of control, while her body clenched and grasped upon his, and she tossed her head from side to side upon the mattress. And then he had opened her legs wider, moving hard against her, driving himself deeper and deeper as her body welcomed him in. Into her very core, and there he spilled his seed.

Tremors ran through her, lessening as the pleasure wave receded. Her breath gradually slowed, and her heartbeat returned to normal. Lazily, Meg opened her eyes, becoming aware that she was lying on her side, pressed along the length of him. Both of them were quite bare, without even a quilt to cover them, but it didn’t seem to matter.

He was tracing her smooth skin, running his callused fingers down into the slender dip of her waist, before climbing the curve of her hip. Then back again, over and over, as if he could never get enough of the feel of her. She liked the sensation of his hand on her, the sense of being his. Not owned by him—never that, for Meg was not the sort of woman who could be owned by any man. But being by his side, a part of him, his other half.

As Meg ran a proprietary gaze over him, she noticed that his rod was standing to attention again. Did she dare? Could she be so bold with a man who was near enough to a stranger? But this was Gregor Grant, and just now she dared anything.